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31
SEBASTIAN
I get it now.Bee’s fear. The possibility of us hangs over me, a dream I’m not ready to wake up from. Pursuing it makes it real, and reality has a habit of ripping the floor out from under you. I know now why she waited so long to go after what she wanted, why she packed up and came back. Because when you take that dive, you want a safe place to fall.
Too bad I fell weeks ago. Months, maybe.
It cuts deep, right between my ribs, the ache of loving her. An ever-present need to mark her ownership of me. Make it permanent. Keep her here, where she’s safe.
Where she’s mine.
It’s standing side by side while we wash dishes, Bee mulling over an issue with the book while I admire the way she glows in the evening dusk. Bee’s purple toothbrush next to my plain white, her elastics hanging off my bottle of beard oil.
It’s Bee smiling fondly while I worry about whether I’m overwatering the spider plant and fretting about howgoogling the problem only made it ten times worse, because apparently no one can agree on whether red spots can be cured.
It’s cheap cuts of steak with steamed veggies when we cook and pizza on nights we can’t be bothered. It’s Bee curled up asleep beside me with a nature documentary in the background.
It’s replacing curtains and knowing that Wednesday is trash day and putting key hooks up in the entryway and a million other little things that all add up to living together.
“There’s a lot of potential.” Mom’s voice carries down the hall, then the front door closes. “I could come over and do a cleansing if you wanted. It really helps clear the way for positive energy.”
“Um.” Bee appears in the kitchen first, her eyes wide and pleading with me.
I bite back a laugh. She’ll have to get used to it.
If she stays.
“Thanks, Mom,” I answer. “We’ll let you know.”
While Mom sips her tea, I tidy up. The kitchen would have been spotless, but then Bee walked in while I was cleaning up last night, wearing nothing but pink lace, and I re-prioritized.
Bee will make it up to me later.
All I can hope for now is to get through the rest of tonight without any further mentions of Dad.
“Some of those weeds look awfully overgrown. He could help with that.” There’s no need to ask whichheshe’s referring to.
So much for that.
“Mom, don’t.”
The last thing I want is to argue with her, especially about him. How can I possibly do that to her? But seeing the pain in her eyes? God, being the one to put it there? It’s a fate worse than death.
“Please talk to him. He’s trying to do better. You don’t have to have a relationship with him, but I think it’s important for you to see how he’s changed. That he’s been capable of seeing his faults without being tied to them. And maybe then you’ll stop believing it to be true for yourself.”
It’s obvious neither of us is equipped for this. Maybe I don’t get to have this. Maybe I was never meant to have more than I do. It would make sense. My life has been one long penance for my father’s actions. Maybe I’ve overreached.
Sins of the father, etc.
And now Mom wants us to reconcile.
What a nightmare.
Saying no to her goes against every fiber of my being, but there’s nothing I want less than to sit in his presence. Is he seriously going to sit there pretending everything is okay?
Or fucking worse, want to talk about why it isn’t?
Mom places her mug down and sets her shoulders. Things are about to get serious, and I can’t fake entering a tunnel this time.
